Teasers & Trial Balloons
by MBurris
Summary: These are the first chapters of the stories I have going, and some ideas that will never be completed. As I finish stories, the relevant chapter will be updated with a notice. Anything that's up for adoption is explicitly noted; anything else can be adapted as you like using your own words (like all other fan fiction!)
1. Wizard of the Light

_A slip of the tongue reveals to Harry an alternative path, one much more demanding than he experienced before, where the rewards he asks for are denied him..._

 **Disclaimer**

All chapters of this entire story are covered by this disclaimer: if you recognize it, it's not mine – probably owned by Rowling, when you get right down to it. Although I doubt that copyright law revolves on the mental capacity of individual readers.

 **Background**

This story begins at the start of Harry's fifth year. Unlike in canon, Harry's emotions are not reset at the beginning of a book, and so he is still dealing with the aftermath of the Tri-Wizard Tournament when the Dementors attack. And then there's a trial in which he feels abused and abandoned …

 **Notes**

Blackstorm of Thunderclan served as a beta reader for the first half of this story, and I'm quite grateful for his assistance in tying down plot threads. If there are any grammatical twists that disturb you, or typos that grate, please PM me, as they are my fault, not his. And the plot is all mine, too, so don't bother him about issues with that, either.

 **Questions**

These are the questions/musings that led to the writing of this fic:

We all look at the cumulative actions of Albus Dumbledore and know that he is not Good. So what would a _true_ Leader of the Light look like?

If there are dementors … why aren't there creatures on the other side of the continuum? What would that creature look like?

If we accept that there is a God in the HP universe, what is the relationship between God and magic? Why doesn't the Wizarding world have a recognized religion? They swear by Merlin rather than Deity – why?

There are so many curses; what does the use of magic used to bless look like?

And not quite related: why can't Rowling use a calendar when plotting her stories?

-o-

I tried to create a mythology and creation story for the Wizarding world that melds what we see in canon with what our intuitions tell us about righteousness and goodness. Well, **my** intuition at any rate. I am not endorsing or proselyting for any theology – this is strictly made up. Well, I actually stole a lot, filed off the serial numbers, mashed it together, slapped a new coat of paint on it, and presented the hodge-podge as something _strictly for story utility_.

I hope that it's also entertaining.

 **Chapter 1: Missteps**

 **Friday, September 1, 1995 – The Hogwarts Express**

The warning whistle sounded from the engine of the Hogwarts Express, and the train pulled away from the odd fractionally-named platform. Students were renewing friendships, pursuing their objects of romance, or frantically addressing themselves to the summer homework they had successfully ignored for the past ten weeks. Mostly the latter.

Harry Potter was doing none of those things.

Cedric Diggory had been dead for … _75 days and about 18 hours. Almost 76 days._ Harry could still see Cedric's sightless gaze in the graveyard. Eyes open, eyes closed, Harry could see little else that summer.

The dementors Harry encountered that summer wouldn't have stood a chance if they were vulnerable to morose fatalism. Harry had been generating that in abundance. The show trial that Harry had been subjected to had changed his emotional state in a hurry, however; between that power-mad pink fatso trying to get Harry expelled and Dumbledore's complete lack of support, Harry had switched from depressed apathy to roiling rage.

Albus Bloody Dumbledore … at the end of each year he had sat with Harry, explained what he could, gentled Harry's frustration and impatience and fear by offering himself as the wise director of Harry's life, only to abandon Harry at the time when he was most needed. _Sod that. If the bloomin' Headmaster wants to play games this year, he can bloody do it himself. He can get what he deserves._

And now, Harry was unable to get a decent night's sleep. At least every third night was interrupted with Snake-face's presence in his head, Harry's scar radiating pain, while Harry got to see through that bastard's eyes and hear through that bastard's ears. The lack of rest was contributing towards Harry's mood, and not in any way that was positive.

Ron and Ginny entered the compartment. "Hey, Harry, finally found ya. I gotta go to the prefect's meeting with Hermione. Later!" Ron had lofted his trunk into the overhead racks during his brief speech, and was out the door before the trunk was fully settled. Ginny followed suit (with a bit more effort), but dropped into the seat across from Harry when she was finished.

"What's going on?" Ginny asked. She seemed to be assuming that Harry was willing to talk. They had talked – or rather, Ginny had refused to shut up – while Harry was at the Burrow after that farce of a trial they put him through.

Harry responded as he had the week before; shortly, with minimal words. "Nothing," he said, flatly. He turned his head to the window and closed his eyes. Ginny seemed to respect his desire for silence – she didn't attempt to make small talk, at least – but that went by the wayside when Ron and Hermione returned from their meeting.

Ron loudly had Ginny switch over and sit by Harry, so he and Hermione could sit together on the seats opposite. He loudly voiced his opinion of the prefects (mostly negative), his hopes for the coming Hogwarts quidditch season (an undefeated sweep), and his hopes for the Cannons this coming season (even though the last several decades were unalloyed failure.) Harry could also tell, without opening his eyes, that Ron had hopes for romance with Hermione – his voice went from brash, loud optimism to tentative questioning whenever he directed a question to the girl. Harry wanted to shake his head in disgust, but didn't want to reveal that he was awake.

Hermione did her best to add to the noise pollution, too. Inquiring / ordering both Ron and Ginny to produce their homework, fretting over study schedules for O.W.L.s, arguing with Ron over prefect duties, and just, well, arguing with Ron. She did that a lot. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that _she_ had a sneaking suspicion that he was awake – she didn't hit the top of her range during the continuous argument, but she came close. Hermione was usually more considerate than that. Or Ron was being more irritating than before; it really was a tossup.

Ginny, too, got into the whine-fest. Her contribution was a monologue about her hopes for Hogsmeade weekends, where Harry would take her (and apparently only Harry caught that she meant it in both fashions), and Harry _might_ have caught her musing about the names for their children under her breath. _Daft bint_. As if Harry would spend time or money or attention on romancing his … _mother_. Inwardly he shook his head. Everyone was forever telling him that Ginny was the spitting image of his mother – and for some reason, she seemed to take that as a sign that they _should_ be together. Harry rather felt the opposite.

The monologues disguised as arguments raged on as the Express raced toward Hogsmeade. Ron hoped; Hermione fretted; Ginny dreamed.

And in the corner, faced pressed outwards to the windows glass, Harry _seethed_.

-o-

At the Welcoming feast, there was a … rude disappointment. _That squat little old biddy from the trial is here at Hogwarts._ Harry just knew that this was _not good_ , and he wondered just how bad this year was going to be. That condescending, self-righteous, political _toad_ was going to be in charge of DADA this year, and it was fairly self-evident that there was going to be some seriously heavy political firepower aiming for Harry this year. _After all, she wanted to expel me and snap my wand for no reason before; I can't see her letting that go, or thinking I'm all sweetness and light all of a sudden_.

Harry let Hermione and Ron go do their prefect thing, still keeping his thoughts to himself. The dorms were just as he had left them in June, so Harry climbed into his bed, drew the curtains, and tried to sleep. He hadn't spoken at all to any of his year mates, and he fully intended to keep the status quo as long as possible. He drifted off to an unrestful slumber, and just before he lost consciousness, Harry realized, _Hey, I can write to Sirius now!_ There were a scant few days spent at the house on Grimmauld Place, but Harry hadn't been able to truly talk with his Godfather – and there was nothing stopping him now.

It was before the classes had even started, so Harry was flush with parchment. He jumped out of bed and began, _Hey, Sirius_ , and then poured all his frustrations into the letter: Durselys, hunger, abandonment, dementors, betrayal, abandonment again, and the constant terror of watching the evil of Voldemort claim more and more innocent lives. It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't lyrical, but … it felt good to know that help was, finally, on its way. Harry had a Godfather now, and he wasn't alone against the world. He had Marauder backup!

Slipping on his robe and shoes, Harry ran out of the dorms, headed to the Owlry. As he entered the cavernous space, Hedwig was already taking wing to meet him, greeting Harry with a soft bark. Harry allowed Hedwig to perch on his arm, and brought her up so that he could rest his head against hers. "This is for Sirius, and he should be at …" The words caught in his throat. _Oh right – Fidelious_. "You know where he is. You can find anyone, can't you girl?"

Hedwig barked again, this time more stridently, and Harry gave her a fond look. One fastened letter later, and Hedwig was flying free, looking very regal as she flew into the evening shadows.

 _Hedwig's on it. I'll be okay._

-o-

 **Sunday, September 3, 1995**

Harry was through. No more. The letter from Sirius had been a masterpiece of weaselly evasions of responsibility.

Harry had asked questions about what he had witnessed during his brief stay at Grimmauld Place: why do you let Molly Weasley give you orders in your own home? What authority does she have? Do you have to have Peter Pettigrew in hand before clearing your name with the Ministry? Why do I have to stay with the Dursley's?

Sirius's return letter expressed childlike confusion about most questions, and then offered the justification that Harry was least inclined to accept: _Dumbledore says that …_

Harry immediately wadded up the parchment, tossed it in the air, and vaporized it with a nicely-aimed _"Incendio!"_

Harry's reply:

 _I wanted someone that I know would care for me and look out for me. You are too damaged – probably by Azkaban, but your basic personality hasn't helped – to be that person I need. I need you to stay as my guardian, because I don't trust Dumbledore and I can't let him have more power over me …_

Hedwig had arrived and was looking curiously at Harry as he sighed, waded up his letter, and sent it to join the parchment that Sirius had sent.

 _I don't trust them. Any of them. So telling them that would be tipping my hand in a fight that I can't afford to lose._ Harry sighed again _. They control my life and none of them care about my happiness. I'm the only one that does._

Hedwig nipped Harry's ear and departed with a mournful bark. Harry's dark mood blackened further.

 _Screw him._ Then Harry reconsidered _. Screw_ _ **them**_ _. Screw them all._

That night, Harry's dreams returned to the summer pattern of a nightly movie starring the atrocities that Voldemort might be up to. While it took Harry many hours to calm down after waking, he was able to dismiss them during the day.

And it wasn't as if Harry was used to doing without sleep.

-o-

 **Monday, September 4, 1995**

It had not been a good night – and the day hadn't helped any. Ron was lazy, Ginny was stalking him worse than Colin ever had, Hermione somehow thought that she was empowered to direct his life for him, and then DADA … for some reason, Harry's schedule this year had classes piled up Monday through Wednesday, with a lone class of Potions on Thursday morning. His first day, he had to start off with a double History, then double Potions before lunch, then Divination, then double DADA. His brain was, frankly, fried, and after his reintroduction to Snape's abuse, his temper was shot, and that was _before_ this insipid and condescending toad decided that she could treat them all like toddlers. The room was decorated in a bright pink that made him want to shudder; he saw the poorly illustrated plates hanging on the walls with pictures of cats, and gave in to the impulse. Several classmates followed suit.

"Good afternoon, class!" The false sweetness was cloying, and insulting. No, even toddlers had more self-respect than to fall for this.

Nobody responded.

"Tut, tut!" _Did she really just say 'tut'?_ "Now, class, mind your manners. When greeted, you must respond pleasantly and promptly! Now, let's try again!" The glitter in Umbridge's eye was … rather nasty. "Good afternoon, class!"

Enough of the students murmured, "Good afternoon," that the patronizing speech was not repeated.

"Now, this is your OWL year, so it is very important that you …"

Harry had had enough and jumped in, "Yeah, about that."

"You are interrupting, _student_."

The momentary expression of murderous rage wasn't missed by very many students, and it changed what Harry was about to say; he stepped it up. "You may have been told; our previous instructors haven't done a very good job, so we're kind of wondering if you can actually, you know, teach. Some of us wouldn't be surprised if we had a squib teaching this class." Harry artfully paused and gave himself an expression of doubt. "You _do_ have a wand, right?"

The rotund lady drew herself up, affronted. "I have been appointed by the Ministry of Magic to oversee your education! I am fully qualified, I assure you!"

Harry shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm afraid that just won't cut it – we've had teachers that lied to us before. Show us your wand, please." His eyes narrowed. "Or don't you have one?"

"Of course I have a wand!" she hissed.

Harry looked at her doubtfully, "And yet you can't show it to us when asked." His face cleared. "You have a wand, yet can't show it to us." Harry's tone lowered as if he was speaking confidentially. "You were going to teach a magical class on Defense – the most practically oriented of all the magical subjects – without actually carrying your wand?"

Umbridge's face went from red to purple. "It is at my DESK!" she roared.

Harry stood and stepped into the space between desks. "You are teaching a wand subject and leave your wand at your desk? That's … very convenient, isn't it? You can't show off your squibness that way, can you?"

"DETENTION!"

"Still haven't seen any magic." Harry observed. Well, and challenged.

Umbridge's expression became even uglier – clearly desiring Harry's immediate death. The lack of humanity in her face gave Harry an idea.

He drew his wand and in the same motion softly incanted, " _Expecto Patronum_!" The ghostly form of a gigantic stag, fully seven feet tall at the head, flashed into existence in the classroom and charged the DADA teacher, antlers lowered. Her rage immediately was replaced by fear and terror as she clumsily dived to avoid the charge of the Patronus.

Harry spoke above the titters of the class, "And that, boys and girls, is how you drive off soul-sucking, depressing … _creatures_."

Class was a total loss, but even with detention that night, Harry felt like it was a win.

The first win he'd had in months. Even if that last word _had_ cost him 100 house points. _Still a win_.

-o-

Harry picked the quill up; the iron tip made it much heavier than his regular school nibs and the balance was off. Umbridge's eyes lit up in anticipation as she waited for Harry to begin his lines. Harry paused, considered the quill, then put it to parchment.

The tip scratched and sputtered over the uneven surface, spreading a thin film of dark, red … ink? Harry looked to the back of his left hand, which was feeling scratched and irritated. His eyes widened.

"You can't do this! This is … making me write with my own blood … it's torture!"

Umbridge's eyes were alight with joy as well as something dark and malevolent. "I assure you, Mr. Potter. As the Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, it is well within my power to do this – _and more_ – to those that defy the Ministry," she said evenly. Her voice was still honeyed on the surface, but the undertone had notes of triumph and vengeance. Nothing sweet.

Harry stood. "I won't!"

"You will, _boy_! You will do as I say!" Umbridge couldn't have calculated a worse thing to say to Harry Potter.

Harry grew livid. For the first time, his rage poured through him, without any of the usual fear or subservience that Vernon had planted in him. He grabbed the quill off the desk, the feather between his thumb and forefinger. "Any more of this, and I swear by all that's holy that you will _beg_ God above for death before I'm done with you!" And he threw the quill (completely missing her, but nicking a ceramic plate hung on the wall.)

Umbridge's normally florid face became pale, then stark white. Her eyes bulged, and her mouth moved silently – shock, apparently. With eyes that never left his face, she hastily backed out of the classroom, the door closing between them. Even after she left, the peculiar pressure that began with Harry's words did not dissipate.

Harry looked around the deserted office. _There is way too much pink in here_. He tentatively reached for his wand on the corner of her desk – he wouldn't put it past the vindictive professor to put some sort of spell on it – but nothing happened when he gingerly picked it up. Snagging his book bag on his way out the door, Harry made his way back to the Gryffindor common room. An unfamiliar magic pressure continued to follow him, swirling in his wake, slowly ebbing.

The portraits, unnoticed, fell silent at his passing, giving each other significant glances.

A/N: This story has now been published in its entirety under Follow the Light. Twenty six more chapters that I hope will entertain.


	2. Blindsided

Blindsided

 **Authors Note:** I read _The Dentists' Daughter_ , by Old Crow. That, combined with some other thoughts I've had, about how an early life immersed in literature should really be shown, and how children really don't value peers that show different interests or behavior, made this. Given how much of this was inspired by (or is a reaction to) the work of others in the FanFiction community, I own even less of this than is usual. Please don't think I own the characters, plot, mileu, ideas, or pixels. JKR owns most of it, and what she doesn't, can be traced back to others.

I hope that you enjoy this anyway.

Chapter 1

The Unbearable Misery of Family

Hermione was a lonely little girl. Bright, though, everyone always said. Well, she was now ten years old – almost eleven – and not so little. Her parent's friends were always remarking about that. None of them ever mentioned how she never had playmates, how her parents never saw her except when she was produced like a trophy at the ever-present parties. Nobody ever noticed that her parents showed how they pretended to love her by buying her things – with the frequent intention that she should now go off _somewhere else_.

These were not parents that built a close-knit family. These were self-absorbed adults that had a child at the 'appropriate' time because it was 'the thing to do.' They were both relieved when they were able to put all the 'child-stuff' away and return to their adult conversations about themselves and money and the money they had, themselves, and the wonderful things that money could buy.

Such as ice and glassware and the many, many, _many_ varieties of alcohol. Sometimes paired with food.

It should be kept in mind that these were adults that had deliberately chosen dentistry as a profession so they could insist on the title of Doctor while absolutely refusing to provide emergency services. Had they a bit more self-awareness or a bit less certainty about their place in the world, they would have defined the term _parvenu_. In short, W. Daniel Granger and M. Emma Granger née Wilkins were perfect for each other, abysmally absent for their daughter, and of no use to anyone else.

Hermione – so named because it screamed 'parental social pretensions' _and_ 'parental social cluelessness' – therefore took what solace she could in whatever interactions she could find that were quiet, unobtrusive, and permitted. In short, only the imaginary kind, which meant … literature. As her parents were flush with more dosh than was good for them, and as Hermione had once actually attempted to produce a book (at the age of six – while they were inattentive, the Grangers did _remember_ ), the girl child had been gifted with a Macintosh IIfx, LaserWriter II NTX, and a full suite of office software.

Driven by boredom and a lurking curiosity, Hermione had actually attempted to learn all the software, but was primarily using the spreadsheet application, QuattroPro, to track her parents bar bill. (Hermione had come across the concept of sublimated hostility, and summarily rejected it. Her hostility was out, very proud, and somewhat … piercing.) She updated it every time her caretakers produced her for inspection, as if to show that they had passed the necessary conditions to be considered adults. As the whispers started, "It's a shame about those teeth," or worse, "that hair!", Hermione would produce her list of alcoholic consumables (and estimated prices) that had flowed through the house that month. Lately, she had begun adding quotes from their guest's appraisal of the potables, which sounded more … indefensibly pretentious than in their original venue.

W. Daniel would fix a patently false smile and accept the upbraiding, because he knew that if he did not … strange things would happen. Inexplicable things. _Socially embarrassing_ things. Cosmetic surgeries became impossible to ignore. Mr. Granger once dreamt that his ear tuck and jaw shaping had reverted to their before state – the _nightmare_! And if anyone dared laugh at the girl, well …

… worse things happened. An up and coming assistant to the local MP suddenly found a very unsightly and irregular growth on his face. An opinion editor who was not shy about airing said opinions abruptly found her teeth noticeably larger; not just the front teeth, but those in the rest of the jaw as well, forcing the incisors into an up-and-out translation before finally settling into an … an _air-cooled_ position. Several guests had found their night at the Granger's to be the precursor to a rather large cosmetic surgery bill – aside from that one rodent-eyed chap who had been gifted with the most amazing case of wind that would not stop presenting itself at the most inauspicious times.

Mr. Granger shuddered. For the past three years, he had endured the moralizing from his daughter in order to prevent the unnatural and uncomfortable from becoming real; and every time as she left, brandishing her little spreadsheet printout, he thought; You _are the reason I drink so mush. Much_.

For all the embarrassment, it was fortunate that their social circle was highly narcissistic and rather less observant than the average subject of the Crown; the … _events_ … were infrequent enough that none of their social set had made the connection between 'drinks at the Grangers' and 'inexplicable personal tragedy'. Thus, the drinks went on, and so did the … unnaturalness.

On September 19, 1990, the Granger family was gathered by an insistent call from the front door, where they found Hermione warily eyeing … a woman that virtually defined the trope of 'dried up spinster'. Dr. W. Daniel Granger, with no great warmth, asked, "May we help you?"

The woman sniffed. "I am here to present to your daughter, Hermione Granger, an exclusive offer for a rather special boarding school. May I come inside?" She was whip thin, of medium height, and sported a sour expression on her face that, according to the deep lines, had been there for many decades. Her black outfit was particularly ancient in style, and showed enough wear that it could be equally ancient in provenance – the black had worn well past Charcoal, though Iron, Shadow, and Pebble, and was now venturing almost into Smoke. Clearly, regardless of her diction, she was a Scot.

"How much?" blurted out Mrs. Dr. Granger. There had been a particularly bad _event_ last weekend, and now the prospect of relief was rather … seductive.

The severe teacher had tightened her lips, and merely repeated, "May I come in?" Mr. Dr. Granger was amused that her speech did, indeed, show traces of the High Country barbarism. He kept that to himself, and swept his hand inwards as an invitation that the crone quickly accepted.

Hermione followed with a narrow-eyed suspicion; she knew full well how her parents regarded her, and was viciously opposed to being shipped off to a boarding school. Apparently, the little swot was intent on repaying all her perceived misery, regardless of the cost or the eventual outcome of mutual homicide. But she knew that her parents weren't that good at deceiving her, so this was a surprise to them as well – which meant that this offer wasn't part of their household campaigns against each other.

Once settled in the parlour (where the schoolmarm selected a high back chair with miniscule padding), the conversation began in earnest. "Mr. and Mrs. Granger," she began, only to be interrupted.

"That's 'Dr. and Dr.', Professor," Mrs. Dr. Granger put in.

A bit bewildered by the interruption, the Professor said, "Ah, excuse me?"

"We're both dentists, Professor. The correct form of address is 'Dr.', for both of us," explained the Mr. Dr. Granger.

The Mrs. Dr. quickly chose to lower the apparent formality of the visit with, "But I am M. Emma Granger, and my husband is W. Daniel Granger. If we are not to stand on titles, you may use our given names." M. Emma attempted a winsome smile that was supposed to put her guest at ease and simultaneously show that the family of the house was of impossibly higher standards and breeding. The disconnect between what was attempted and what was achieved came from the lack of alcohol running through everyone's veins – something that gave M. Emma, in particular, great regrets.

The visiting teacher gave a blank look, shook her head, and attempted to recover. "Emma, then, you may have …"

The lady of the house interrupted again, "That's M. Emma, for myself, and W. Daniel for my husband. Omitting the initial letter would be … plebian."

Three blinks. Hermione, on a chair suitably out of the way for the adults to talk, rolled her eyes. She had seen her mother harp on this point, shutting down all conversation, for over ten minutes at a time.

Hermione was not willing to wait, nor was she willing to prop up her parent's affectations. "Professor, you have yet to introduce yourself, I assume that you teach at the school you mentioned?"

That was enough to put the old lady back on track, and focused on the young lady rather than her bewildering parents. "Ah, yes. I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, and I have been sent to bring you an exclusive opportunity. First," she hesitated, "have you noticed that there are occasional events in your life that defy explanation and that may be associated with times of great emotion?"

The three Grangers glanced at each other. This woman was not a member of the household, but had openly spoken of events that nobody wanted to face – or even name. An uncomfortable silence reigned in the parlour.

Eventually, Professor McGonagall continued. "Those events happen because Hermione has the ability to do magic, and her emotional stress has triggered this talent. Once she has completed her training at Hogwarts, her talent will be fully under control and will pose no danger to any bystanders."

There was a great deal of skepticism and outright disbelief coming from the Granger's – all three of them – and none of it was disguised. "Magic is real?" asked Hermione, with an audible snort.

In response, the professor withdrew a thin stick, a little less than a foot long, from her sleeve and waved it at the coffee table in the center of the seating arrangement; the table blurred and reformed into a lion … complete with authenticating stench.

Now _that_ was convincing. Well, not the lion itself – but the amazing amount of urine that soaked their Authentic Reproduction Persian Rug. Something that didn't go away when the lion did, and served to remind them that their imaginations were rather small in the new universe that had been revealed.


	3. Distaff Backup

**Distaff Backup**

Remus is the most versatile of the characters created by Rowling. He has skills (but they are nebulous), an Affliction (that can be managed in a story easily), and above all … loads of time unaccounted for. So I began to think, _what could a wizard do for a living while away from the magical world?_

This is my beginning of an answer.

 **-o-**

Remus Lupin shook his head as he packed his few belongings. It was always this way – a few months, maybe a few more, and then "We think it's time you moved on." Well, teaching was nice while it lasted. Being back in Hogwarts helped Remus remember a time when friendship was stronger and the stakes for daily living were less than life and death. _Not like this year at all._

Remus stoked the robe hung by the wardrobe – it belonged to the school, and thus must stay. His hand felt a paper of some sort ; Remus' eyes sharpened in interest. As he read the small pasteboard business card that he had retrieved from the robes that should have been empty, he murmured, "Now where did you come from?"

His interest was definitely engaged by the writing:

To continue your teaching career call

0500 545 537 or 0500 523 437

"This looks interesting …"

==O==

Two days later – the eleventh of June, 1994 – Remus Lupin walked in to a run-down coffee shop in Islington. It wasn't a good area – a large number of layabouts and drifters – but the more, um, _stabby_ citizens seemed to be aware of the brutal rage that lurked behind the mild mask he wore.

This particular coffee shop was notable in that it had an actually working public phone; a rarity in this area. Two younger men were loitering by the phone and Remus gave them a flat look. They both backed off without any apparent conscious thought.

Remus carefully made sure that he was not holding his breath as he dialed. _I'm not nervous, I'm not nervous, I'm not I'm not I'm not…_ All of his hopes for the future were currently tied up in this; he wasn't sure what he'd do if it was the cruel joke he feared.

"Hello?" The voice was female, and sounded young.

"Um, yes … I was told that I could find a teaching position by calling this number?"

"Ah, yes. Your name, please?"

"Remus John Lupin."

The voice became noticeably warmer. "I've been hoping that you called. Oh, I'm Holly Hurd-Wood, the available board representative. This is a little earlier than I expected! I take it that you are somewhere in the London metro area?"

Remus was a little taken aback. "Yes …"

"Do you currently have lodging in the area?"

"Um, not at the moment …"

"Then I'd like to arrange a room for you in the Bedford Hotel through at least Tuesday, with your interview at restaurant local to the hotel on Monday. Let me see … the earliest I can arrange is for Monday at half four. Do you prefer Italian or Turkish?"

"Er – excuse me?"

"I have the option of two restaurants for our meeting. The Trattoria Verdi offers Italian cuisine, and the Antalya showcases Turkish. Which would you prefer?" Her tone was light and playful.

"I suspect that I'd prefer the Turkish."

"That's great, Mr. Lupin! I'll have the reservation for half four for the both of us. You need not bring your CV or any other documentation. The restaurant is just a few doors up from your hotel, and both the restaurant and the hotel have no silver on the premises, so that will not be a concern. I hope to see you at the school soon!" And with that alarming aside, she rang off.

In a semi daze, Remus hung up the phone and left the shop, absentmindedly snarling at a threatening young man who was braver than he was perceptive.

 _How did she know?_

What _did she know?_

 _ **Who**_ **are** _ **these people?**_

It was going to be a long time until half four Monday.

==O==

Lupin spent the weekend browsing the bookshops and wandering through the British Museum, venturing out and about the gardens and parks local to his weekend abode. The offer of a weekends lodging allowed him to bank a bit more, but at the last minute he decided that a new tweed jacket would be a good investment for the interview.

Approaching the shop, he dithered horrendously. _Should I? Will I come off as insecure?_ What decided him at the end was the glimpse he had of the interior of Antalya; it was quite a bit upscale from the pubs he usually frequented. The tweed jacket would help him blend in as well as reinforce the 'kindly professor' persona he was trying to radiate.

At last, the time came and Remus Lupin presented himself at the front desk of the Antalya. They quickly confirmed his reservation and escorted him through the quiet dining area to a semi-private table at which a lady was already seated. Her clothing seemed a little dull within the bright – almost overpowering – Turkish décor, but she was a little young to be middle aged, and a little mature to be an undergrad student.

She was also a little forward, precisely as she came across during their phone conversation. "Hello!" She stood and extended her hand to Remus. "I'm Holly, and we're glad you were able to make it. Please, have a seat."

Remus took the proffered seat at the table, and Holly waved away the waiter. "Before we officially begin, can I answer any questions?" she said.

Remus' mouth twitched. He withdrew the pasteboard card from an inner pocket of his new sport coat, and said, "I have many. I found this card," and he handed it over to Holly, "as I was leaving my last position. I have no idea who could have slipped it to me – or even when they could have done so. Given my state of profound ignorance, let us begin with the fundamentals: what position do you want me to fill?"

Holly smiled broadly. "Mr. Lupin, you are – hopefully – going to be the newest addition to the staff of St. Trinian's. Given what we know of you and our own staffing needs, we would like you to teach basic maths through advanced algebra to our students – first through upper sixth form – as well as handle some of our more advanced physical education needs." She blinked winsomely at the nonplussed man across from her. "Is this acceptable to you?"

Remus sat back in his chair slowly. "And from what you mentioned on the phone, you are already aware of my … medical condition."

She cocked her head at him for a short moment, then pulled her bag into her lap. She pulled a small metal cube out and placed it on the table between them, leaving it showing a black button on the top. "If you would please press the button, Mr, Lupin?" As he hesitantly extended a finger, she corrected, "With you palm, if you would." He did as requested, and was astonished to see small golden runes, previously invisible, on the sides of the cube glow. The pull of magic from his hand was slight, but not negligible. The feeling of magic washed over him, lessening the tense feelings that usually accompanied him in the Muggle world.

Holly was still chatty. "No, I am not a witch, but this device was given to me so that we can safely discuss subjects in secret." She fixed him with a serious look. "Yes, we know that you are a werewolf, and we also know of your record as a werewolf. We also are aware of where you have been teaching for the past academic year. It is because of all three of these factors that this offer is being extended."

Remus blinked in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"Both magicals and werewolves are rather more … hardy … than normal folk. It follows that a magical werewolf would have even more resistance to injury. You have been able to teach a dangerous subject under difficult circumstances with a rather exemplary safety record during this past year."

 _DADA at Hogwarts while being besieged by dementors? That could qualify_ , he supposed.

"And you seem to be unaware of the nature of St. Trinian's."

"I seem to be, at that," Remus acknowledged.

"St. Trinian's is an all-girls school that serves a … difficult clientele. At graduation, each girl is expected to make the world tremble at her feet, rather than allow it to frustrate her dreams. Our physical education classes require a high degree of exertion, and also typically carry a high degree of danger, although that is not our intent. Your ability to use magic also helps you to heal quickly and shrug off impacts that would incapacitate most others."

Remus interlaced his fingers on the tabletop. "Just what activities occur in these PE classes?"

"Lacrosse and field hockey are two of the more popular, but the martial arts, parkour, and deportment are the ones that shed most of the blood."

Remus choked down a startled laugh. "Deportment?"


	4. The Great Game

**The Great Game**

Really? Confronted by the magical possibilities of JK Rowling's world, and the plethora of mind-bending spells and potions, people end up thinking of burglary? Really? Can't we make it more exciting than that?

Say, a two-person _Mission Impossible_ type team operating on the far side of the law?

 **-o-**

Remus Lupin, formerly a full Professor at Hogwarts, was slowly packing his belongings. This was the best job he had ever been able to have; considering his lycanthropy, possibly the best job he would ever have. It was a shame, but he had built up a nice stash during the year; the provided room and board enabled him to save enough to live modestly for three years, or to become thoroughly drunk for two months. _Even longer if I'd accept lower quality tipple_. It took a lot of money to become completely soused when you insisted on high quality wine and aged whiskey. It really wasn't the _lycanthropy_ that made his life such a hell – it was the combination of top-shelf taste with bottom drawer finances. And the lack of a job to support those tastes.

Lupin froze when he realized that the book in his hand wasn't one he'd bought. Slowly, he opened the thin book. There was a small self-inking quill in a loop … _aw, damn. It's some kid's enchanted diary. Well let's see who wrote in it._

Contrary to Lupin's expectations, there was only one sentence, written in a half familiar scrawl, on the first page.

 _Are you up to no good?_

His breath caught in his throat. It can't be … And then another line of text appeared beneath it.

 _Would you like to be?_

The genial smile he had cultivated as a professor sharpened, twisted, until it became a very predatory expression. Maybe Hogwarts wouldn't be the high point of his career, after all. The packing picked up in pace.

==O==

"I used an old recognition code to get Mad-Eye's attention. We've got an appointment with him this afternoon, we'll need some specific spells and, ah, victim lists."

"Padfoot, are you finally going on that crime spree you always threatened us with?"

Sirius rubbed the back of his neck, somewhat embarrassed. "Um, yes and no."

Lupin's smile was back, even more edged than it had been in Hogwarts. "Going to finally rob your relatives blind, like they deserve?"

Padfoot straightened in mock offense. "Oh, no, Moony – I'm no common burglar. I'm not going to take anyone's money." Pause. "They're going to _give_ it to us. The word of the day is … _fraud_."

The two men looked at each other and burst into raucous laughter.

==O==

"Were you followed?"

Remus stifled a sigh. Moody hadn't mellowed. His apprentices had always sworn that he never would, but Remus had nursed some private hopes.

"Of course not. With the bounty on my head, they wouldn't have waited for anything before trying to catch me." Padfoot had an arrogant way of assuming that he was the center of the universe, but in this case, Moony allowed, he might be right. _And it's not like they could have gotten though my spell-work, anyway._

"What do you need?" Moody came right out and cut to the chase. "With everyone after you," Moody turned to Lupin, "and your problems keeping a job, I figure the two of you would be out of the country before the Hogwarts Express came back."

Sirius Black fidgeted a little. "Um, Moody … We need some help with disguises." He hastened to add, "It's really close to an extended undercover assignment, and you are the foremost expert on security …"

"True, true," muttered the old man. He didn't delay a moment. "You'll need a charm to alter your magical signature, you can find it in _The Auror's Undercover Manual_. Also learn the Owl Confusion Curse, you'll find that and its counterspell in a small pamphlet put out by the Ministry's mail service bureau. Practice your glamours, but don't rely on them; one good _finite_ and the dragon's woke. Use muggle methods for disguise, and you'll want to get a number of reversible cloaks and robes. Best deal is at a muggle theatrical costume company. To learn how to use the muggle disguise items, try one of their theatrical makeup classes, and you can get into those by…"

The impromptu seminar on evasion and escape methods went on for quite some time. Remus, though, was prepared, and had a scroll of auto-recording parchment in his inside pocket. Moody undoubtedly knew it was there, but it helped to supplement any memory lapses the two fugitives might have.

"… you'll also need to make sure that your forged documents are able to pass a magical check; anything altered with magic will revert at the worst possible time, so make sure you aren't going to have to deal with that."

Both men were impressed. They had _expected_ Mad-Eye to have a complete knowledge of what they needed to learn, but to have it dumped in their laps like that was … extraordinary. And exhausting.

Fortunately, even Moody couldn't go on forever. The two Marauders thanked him, and made to leave. Padfoot had to at least ask, though. "Don't you want to join us?"

Moody chuckled, "Bad idea. It's obvious you came to see me, and if I disappear, they'll look for us. As it is, you've got enough risk just hiding the two of you. Add me in there, and it increases by more than half. By yourselves, I don't think that there will be much of an effort to find you." His mouth twitched briefly. "But I might be up for the occasional afternoon event. Any ideas on how you want it to go down?"

Padfoot nodded enthusiastically. "No straight up fights – we're looking at a lot of fast talking, mostly. Well, that and trying to run away before they know why we're running."

Moody nodded sagely, still grinning. "Always have an escape route. Part of job one." Moody's auror training was infamous enough that even Remus knew what he was referring to: _Your first and most important job is to survive to go home at the end of your shift._ Recruits trained by Moody tended to survive long enough to get good. Ministry budgets appreciated that.

"Uh, Moody …"

"Yeah, Lupin?"

"We could also use some," _how to put this delicately_ , "targeting advice."

As he stood, Moody cocked his head to the side and looked intently at the pair. "I have a complete list of surviving Death Eaters with their current locations, suspected but unindicted collaborators with their current locations, and a separate list of damn stupid idiots that won't be missed under any circumstances." The smile that he suddenly sported was clearly an unfamiliar expression, and was neither comforting nor joyful. Moody made a small gesture with his wand, and a medium stack of parchment appeared in his hand, and they were promptly passed to Sirius.

"Stick with those lists, and I won't have to come find you."

==O==

Paris, France had a branch of Gringotts, and the foremost collection of magical fashion shops, closely followed by Milan, Italy. Milan also had a thriving muggle theater district and was the traditional home of the wizarding financial centers in Europe, ever since the rise of the Italian city-states during the Renaissance. It was also conveniently close to the Swiss border, with its associated Muggle banking protections.

This made both locations an obvious place for Sirius to visit, and the two Marauders were wary … so they went to Athens, instead. Well, first, at least. The Muggle theater district of Athens was huge – largest in Europe – and the support businesses were similarly vast. Remus and Sirius spent a very enjoyable and educational fortnight there, learning to use Muggle makeup and disguise techniques. The Gringotts branch was actually minimal, but there was enough of a presence for Sirius to make withdrawals and – much more importantly – request a meeting for … "policy clarification".

The branch manager was a grey goblin with absolutely enormous shoulders; his name translated roughly to 'Metal-folder', but he asked to be called Smith.

Once they were all seated in Smith's office, Remus began the discussion. "We have plans to commit fraud within the Wizarding world, and would like to clarify the rules and procedures of Gringotts. We desire to stay within the rules your people have set, and will not willingly transgress on your laws, your policies, or your customs."

Smith's eyes immediately flicked between the two humans. "You have done well," he said slowly. "There are few Wizards that would think to show respect to Gringotts or our people." He considered in silence for a short pause. "This may be a long meeting, and it is late in the day. Would you be able to continue this meeting while we dine?"

Sirius was a little startled, but didn't let it show (overmuch). Goblins in England did not _ever_ eat while in the company of humans, and he felt that the culture difference might be a bit of a minefield, and not in their favor. "I wouldn't want to trespass," he began hesitantly, "perhaps we could schedule a time for a follow up visit?"

Smith waved away the suggestion. "We will abide by human customs, even though I will be eating the food of my people."

 **A/N** : Smith goes over the rules for accessing a vault, transferring funds, reporting on transactions, magical protections and limitations on coinage, and opening new vaults. They eat together. Smith drops a hint that there are more than a few Wizards he'd like to see impoverished. Moony picks up on the hint, and hands over their target list. Smith asks if he can make some calculations with this list; Sirius tells him to go ahead. Smith departs the room, comes back 20 minutes later. The two Marauders are officially on their own; if caught, the goblin nation will help to prosecute them. But … if the goblins give information and relax some of their security checks, they will expect 40% of the gold liberated from these targets.

Sirius glances at Remus. The haggling starts. Ends up at 25% cut for the goblins, and both Marauders are able to use disguises in Gringotts without being outed.

Dinner is nice.


	5. Piercing the Illusions

I really can't see me doing anything with this one, so if it tickles you, take this idea and run with it.

Severus Snape vs. Harry Potter

Set during Potter's Year 8 at Hogwarts

 _Transfiguration is getting really hard. Maybe I should have kept the Elder Wand._

Harry's brow wrinkled. _Why didn't I?_ _The power would be helpful in class, and then nobody … could … beat ... me …_

Harry sat down on his bed suddenly. _Dumbledore beat Grindlewald. When Grindlewald was using the Elder Wand. When by definition, he couldn't be beaten. And when I was the Master of the Wand, Riddle used it to … kill … me …_

 _None of this makes any sense. There is just no way that I was the master of the wand if Riddle could use it to kill me. But why would I think that I was the master? Because I disarmed Draco when the wand wasn't even being used?_

 _And the way to gain mastery over the wand is to beat someone - who by_ _ **definition**_ _\- can't be beaten?_

 _This_ _ **really**_ _doesn't make any sense._

 _Okay – I've been believing stuff that couldn't have happened. I_ _ **witnessed**_ _it, and it couldn't have happened. So …_

The conclusion was inescapable _. Somebody's been messing with my memories._

Harry's mind whirred along like a goblin cart – with great speed along to an inevitable destination.

 _Who benefits? Aside from being dead, Dumbledore came out all right, but he was already all right. Fred's death hit the Weasley's pretty hard – they couldn't have benefited. Just about every family lost someone …_

 _Waitaminute. I_ think _that they're dead. Lots of others think that they're dead. But since I know that my memories can't be trusted, I also know that everyone else's memories can't be trusted, either._

Harry came back to the central question _. Who benefits?_

 _The Death Eaters have been outed. They're all in trouble. Malfoy's family are a bit poorer and not imprisoned, but they just didn't get the punishments that they deserved. They aren't really benefiting from all this._

 _None of the students are so obsessive about their class standing that they would kill off their competition – Hermione is more competitive that any Ravenclaw, and she actually_ likes _the rivalry._

 _In this … false reality, the only person that has been rebailitated, or come out with any kind of improvement is … Severus Snape. His obsession for my mother_ (and here Harry gave a visible shudder) _is regarded by everyone as some kind of deep love, instead of fixation and a desire to possess her._

Harry slowly realized _, Snape has the skills to create a false reality. He can read everyone else's mind and protect his own. He left behind all the persecution and the hate, all the retribution for betraying both Light and Dark sides, people think of him with grudging respect …_

… _I bet that bastard isn't dead._

 _I need to fix that._


	6. High-Wire Act

Tom had … issues.

Well, to be fair, he always did. Orphaned, bullied, poor … but he had made a valiant effort to rise above that, and he liked to think that an objective look at his efforts would elicit a bit of admiration for what he'd accomplished.

But now?

He shook his head. (It was nice to be able to _do_ that, again.) This was not the life he'd signed up for, not what he'd spent his time to create!

Tom had studied hard, and aided by his native smarts (and a healthy dose of Muggle common sense) he had excelled in this hidden world of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Until he had meddled in Things Man Was Not Meant To Know, and poor Myrtle had lost her life. Sadly, she was the lucky one.

The Basilisk is King of the Serpents. Tom had read that, and thought to use his parseltongue abilities on it. He would be famous! He would be rich! (If he could get the beasts cooperation in harvesting venom – and why wouldn't it cooperate?)

Well, to a King, everyone else looks like … a subject. And subjects that don't carry out the King's wishes get … well, in this case, blinked at. It was a much worse punishment than one might expect.

For Tom, the crux of the matter was that his ability to communicate with the Basilisk while a tremendous gift, also opened up a path for attack. He had been unceremoniously possessed, and forced to undergo a ritual of some kind that involved the killing of poor Myrtle.

The possession hadn't ended that night. It went on, for horrifying year after year, leaving Tom to watch while the basilisk ran roughshod over Tom's carefully crafted knowledge and social standing and reputation and …

That _dammed snake_ killed indiscriminately. Tom had wanted to go into politics – it was a small bit of revenge to have powerful people suck up to him, but he also had a very firm stance on the need to care for orphans. In contrast, the basilisk wanted to make more of them.

Tom had a wild surge of hope when the basilisk got them killed – but his freedom was not to be. That ritual (that had been repeated a few times since that first night) prevented them from dying, and even prevented him from escaping the control of that dammed snake.

Tom was educated, smart, and had an uncanny intuition for magic but he had been completely blindsided by the extent of the control this snake had over him. And then … the Basilisk had arranged for another ritual, this one horrifically steeped in necromancy, to give him a body.

Tom had not dared hope … but this time, the arrogance of the basilisk had been its undoing. The ritual restored a wandering soul to a physical body – _a_ soul. And the basilisk's spectre had been wrenched from control of Tom, and vanished.

Leaving Tom with a deformed face and a number of followers that would cheerfully kill him (for good, this time!) if he did not continue on acting the part of an insane, millennia old snake.

-o-

Tom Riddle has the gift of parseltongue – which, while opening up new avenues of communication, also makes the practitioner uniquely vulnerable, too, to anything that comes through that channel. When an inexperienced, arrogant student tries this gift on a millennia-old basilisk (who may be insane from isolation) … Tom Riddle gets possessed by Basilisk and Myrtle is killed. The Basilisk creates a Horcrux in Tom, and Tom creates a Horcrux in his diary.

The Basilisk is in charge of Tom until his body is destroyed on Halloween, 1980, and the Basilisk's Horcux controls Tom until the graveyard ritual after the Tri-Wizard Tournament. At that point, the ritual gives Tom a body, but the Horcrux in him is not returned with his shade; it disappears, and that's the end of the big snake.

This is also the inspiration for what the Basilisk's Horcrux wanted to do with Harry – possess and put a Horcrux in the prophesied foe. The prophecy wouldn't allow that kind of blurring of identities, and Tom's body was destroyed in the backlash.

Tom is now in the graveyard, and operates on autopilot for a little bit … but during his interaction with Harry comes to realize that he is not compelled to act this way any longer. But he has to keep this a secret from the Death Eaters, because they'll kill him in a heartbeat if this gets out.

Tom is now trying to fake his way through being a Dark Lord, mismanaging his followers whenever he can get away with it, desperately hoping that he can engineer their defeat while he gets away.

This can go along with canon, or it can spiral into a fun crack-fic (which is what I originally had in mind.) This idea is free wot a good home; just help it grow up as best it can.


	7. Knights of Walpurgis

Knights of Walpurgis

"Huh." Harry was sitting in the Leaky Cauldron, and expressing his delight in the manner of 13-year-olds everywhere. (Inarticulate grunting, mostly.) The sheer variety of magical beings that traipsed through this place was amazing, and a marked difference from the boring, enforced homogeneity of Little Whinging.

Actually, Harry would have just muttered, "Cool!" in an awed voice, but that is what he _meant_.

He was sort of on his own, but was also a community baby-sitting project taken on by all the shopkeepers in Diagon Alley. Which meant that everyone that was _supposed_ to be restricting his movements thought that someone _else_ was taking care of him when he was out of sight.

Which was something that Harry exploited to its fullest. Knockturn Alley was no longer a mystery, four days into his stay at the Leaky. But there must have been some other place where all the _cool_ stuff went on, because all he was able to see were a bunch of second-hand stores and crowded, small drinking establishments and more than a few Disorderly Houses. Harry couldn't quite make out what they were, but when he asked a few men at the Leaky, they all agreed that they were places for adult worship of some sort, then began debating which place was the best for "taking your mind off your troubles."

The whole thing bored Harry, and at some level this outraged him: he had been in a magical pub for less than a whole week, and he was bored! This should not be happening!

So Harry ventured further afield each day, looking around and trusting in his luck to prevent misadventure. (But hoping for one in any case.)

On the second Sunday evening at the Leaky, Harry was eating the supper Tom had provided at a large table, surrounded by several oldsters. Quite a few adults had joined him for supper each night, thanking him for his victory over You-Know-Who and commiserating over the loss of his parents.

A few had tried to tease out of him the details of his adventures prior to attending Hogwarts. Instead of trying to protest that he had never Mauled a Manticore (or whatever), Harry treated them to a recitation of chores and punishments that he had endured at the Dursleys, culminating with an explanation of his enforced stay at the Leaky until school was in session.

Minister Fudge came in for a lot of muttered imprecations, and Harry secretly wondered if the curses sent Dumbledore's way would stick. But this night, the crowd had swelled as they encouraged him to talk about the cruelty and manual labor found in the Muggle world.

As Harry wrapped up his description of manual gardening and cooking ("like a house elf!"), a grizzled old man sitting across the table from him took advantage of everyone's attention turning away from Harry. He quietly slid a small box from his seat across to Harry and raised his eyebrow as he caught Harry's eye. Harry nodded minutely, taking the box under his own hand, and the man leaned back and left the table.

 _Smooth_. Harry was thrilled that he was now apparently on An Adventure with Secret Handoffs. While he itched to run back to his room and examine his new possession, he knew that it was important for Spy Behavior that he remain calm and in public for a while.

The box is a shield for the contents, preventing scrying, summoning, and the like. The box contains a few books, and a sheet of parchment addressed to Harry explaining the box. The box is given to Harry by a man whose brother was a Knight and was killed facing Albus Dumbledore.

The primary contents of the box is a journal of one of the original Knights of Walpurgis, the followers of Grindelwald. It turns out that Dumbledore was Gellert Grindelwald's partner for much longer than was publically known, and that Albus Dumbledore served as the Intelligence Officer for the Knights. Dumbledore and Grindlewald had a falling out, and Dumbledore ambushed Grindlewald, taking from him the Deathstick, and imprisoning him in Nuremgard. Dumbledore knows that if he kills with the Deathstick he will be at risk of having the Deathstick turn on him, betraying him to his death, so Dumbledore refuses to engage in fatal spells.

Tom Riddle joined the quiescent Knights and re-formed them into the Death Eaters, stealing the leadership and control of the group away from Dumbledore. Dumbledore is also intentionally "mismanaging" the Order of the Phoenix to reduce the number of Wizards and Witches that would object to the Knights taking control of Wizarding Europe.

In essence, the entire history of Wizarding terrorism and political maneuvering since 1930 is the public byproducts of infighting over who gets to control The Knights of Walpurgis.

Oh – St. Walpurgia protects _against_ the effects of witch craft; the wizarding organization is actually named _die Ritter kämpfen gegen Walpurgis_ , or the Knights Fighting Against Walpurgia.

How does Harry fight back now that he knows that Dumbledore can't be trusted?

This is also something I will not be able to develop, so if you treat it right, it's yours!


End file.
